<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Only Logical Explanation by SupposedToBeWriting</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26667742">The Only Logical Explanation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting'>SupposedToBeWriting</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Visit to S1 Era Jon and Martin, Alternate Reality, Hijinks with the Spiral, M/M, Post-160 but no other major spoilers of S5, accidental hurt/comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:21:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26667742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood have been working in the Archives for a few months. Neither can say they're particularly well-equipped for their respective jobs - but today, moreso than other days, seems difficult in a way that neither can describe. It's as if they can't trust their very senses. If there's one thing that they are both certain of, however, they know they do not love one another. What an absurd thought.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>CW: Major feelings of disassociation/unreality, a brief spider situation</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was 3:34 PM.</p><p> </p><p>Jon was filled with a deep sense of <em>wrongness</em>, as he saw the little numbers displayed in Segoe UI font on the corner of his desktop computer. It was not meant to <em>be </em>3:34 PM, but the clock said that it <em>was </em>3:34 PM, and who was more fallible here? Even moreso, he couldn’t quite place his finger on why, precisely, it was not meant to be 3:34 PM. And yet. The numbers seemed to constrict him.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he decided that he had simply lost track of time. Yes, that happened – with him, especially. He had been so fixated on work that he was under the impression it was much earlier in the day. After all, didn’t that make the most sense?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Work. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He looked around his office at the Magnus Institute, precisely as he had left it, with minor-increasingly-major trepidation. The office itself was only slightly more generous than a broom closet, and he had never known a place that could cause a barbed wire blob of anxiety to develop in his stomach, scratching at the lining and making him bleed. <em>You’re not qualified for this, this was all a mistake, they’ll find out, they’ll find out, they’ll find out what you’ve done. </em></p><p> </p><p>What Jonathan Sims had <em>done, </em>precisely, was still somewhat up for debate. One day, he’d been perfectly happy in Research – at least, as happy as he allowed himself to be. And then … here. He’d brought a cardboard box of his things down. To his office. As Head Archivist. There were only a few inches of clearance between the sides of his desk and the filing cabinets that lined the room, most of which were half-empty. His predecessor had preferred to keep stacks and stacks of statements in stained manila folders elsewhere. Namely: shoved behind filing cabinets, foundations for small statement skyscrapers, and propping up a loose leg of his desk. He had made little headway in sorting them.</p><p> </p><p>But he had to try his best, didn’t he? Because he’d somehow made Elias Bouchard believe that he was fit for this position, and he doubted that he would simply be released to his previous research position if he failed. No, in all likelihood, he would simply be … let go. Which wasn’t an option. He just had to work harder, and he could eke by.</p><p> </p><p>And, Christ alive, it was already 3:34 PM. What had he even done today? Could he even remember? It all faded into a beige haze in his mind. Jon could have moved mountains or pushed paper all day, and he wouldn’t recall the difference. He bit the inside of his lip anxiously and, with a trembling hand, reached for the closest bit of paper on his desk.</p><p> </p><p><em>Focus, Jon. You’re here, in your office, and it’s 3:34 PM. You have to focus. Banish any other wriggling thoughts (<strike>worms worms they were crawling on me Martin gasping tunnels worms) </strike></em> <em>from your mind. If you don’t put your whole attention on this, you will fail. No distractions. </em></p><p> </p><p>He brought his other hand up to the back of his neck, surprised to find bare, clean skin there. Hadn’t his hair been longer? Yes, it had been longer, it had brushed to the base of his neck, and it had been greasy -</p><p> </p><p>Well, it wasn’t longer any more, was it? And he most definitely hadn’t been in for a trim recently. Which meant that he had been mistaken, and his hair had never been that long. Must have been the stress, that was the most likely thing, people imagined all sorts of things when placed under a certain amount of stress. No, he had always kept his hair cropped short, because that was professional.</p><p> </p><p>Unlike certain others. Martin Blackwood, one of his assistants, had unkempt curly hair that jutted out well past his ears. His curls frequently fell over his eyes, making him resemble Highland cattle (<strike>cabin wood wood fresh wood mould chilly morning would you like coffee or tea love)</strike>. Given his additional tendencies for faded video game t-shirts and untied Converse shoes, Jon could’ve started drafting a <em>list </em>about what needed fixing about him.</p><p> </p><p>Speak of the devil. The note in his hand was written in Martin’s scratchy handwriting with a half-dead blue ballpoint pen.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hey, Jon! </em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <em>I’ve been having some trouble cross-referencing some statements. I know connected statements are meant to be documented, but I’m not sure where the previous assistants’ follow-up notes are kept? I know there’s a lot of old data kept on floppies, but with the new system upgrade and all, I don’t think I can read those! Thought I’d ask the boss-man! :-)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-MKB</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The groan that eked out from his throat reverberated around the office. An unintended benefit was, due to the absolute clusters of filing cabinets and statements piled everywhere, that his office had a certain amount of soundproofing. He could curse relatively loudly and everyone else would be blissfully unaware. Jon picked up a pen and untwisted it, ready to make a to-do list for himself.</p><p> </p><p>Now he had to go deal with Martin, at some point during the day. It wasn’t like <em>he </em>knew where the follow-up notes were kept (and christ, when was the last time he’d dealt with a floppy disk?), but he could hardly admit to ignorance in front of the village fool.</p><p> </p><p>Because then what did that make <em>him? </em></p><p> </p><p>He would tell Martin to go search through document storage for the notes, and to <em>figure it out </em>with the floppy disks. That was his usual go-to when Martin directly asked him for something Jon had no idea for.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Figure it out, Martin. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It sounded harsh, of course, but Jon wasn’t sure what else he was meant to do. He was underqualified for this job, but he couldn’t quite show that – for reasons previously discussed – and that meant keeping face in front of Martin Blackwood. In some ways, Jon felt quite well justified, because Martin seemed intent on making things difficult for him anyway.</p><p> </p><p>A list of things Martin had done just this week:</p><p> </p><p>1.) Held a door open for Jon. A kind effort, but he had let it go too soon. It had crashed into Jon’s nose.</p><p>2.) Fallen holding a pile of unstapled statements. In his haste to pick it up, he had mixed them all together – typewritten, identically formatted statements.</p><p>3.) Had done an unflattering impression of Jon’s mannerisms. In Martin’s defense, Jon had simply walked into a small contest of sorts being done between his assistants – but only stood to watch Martin’s own pitiful impersonation.</p><p>4.) Had blatantly ignored 60% of his duties in favor of organizing the printing room.</p><p>5.) Spilled a full cup of tea onto Jon’s shoes.</p><p> </p><p>Jon did not like Martin Blackwood.</p><p> </p><p>He glanced down at the note again, wondering if he could simply claim that he hadn’t found out, that it had gotten mixed up with everything else on his desk. He <em>wouldn’t, </em>of course. Shade too immoral, even for him, but –</p><p> </p><p>Oh?</p><p> </p><p>The contents of the note had been overwritten. In thick black ink, a simple question had been scrawled in large, jagged lettering. The question stared up at him mockingly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Do you like Martin Blackwood? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon blinked at the note several times. He glanced around the office, as if trying to discover an unknown intruder. No, he was alone, as he had been for most of the day (at least, far as he could remember, the rest of the day was still so foggy <strike>it’s normal fog Martin Scottish fog you’re okay let me hold your hand </strike>in his mind). His eyes dropped to the pen in his hand.</p><p> </p><p>By far, the most likely explanation was that he’d scrawled the question himself in his pondering about Martin Blackwood. Unconsciously. Unusual, to be sure, but Jon did fidget with things in his hands sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>A question jotted down, even if he didn’t remember writing it, begged to be answered. And Jon was confident in his answer. After all, he had answered it before even writing it down.</p><p> </p><p>No, he did not like Martin Blackwood. Martin Blackwood was a clumsy, dim-witted, lazy fool that brought him tea and organised printing rooms so he wouldn’t actually have to face the bulk of the work. He went on about television shows and the weather and current events. He mumbled when he should have spoken loudly and nearly shouted when he should have bitten his tongue. He was chronically inept and ignored asking for help until issues reached a breaking point. And Jon was terrified of being viewed by others as he viewed Martin Blackwood.</p><p> </p><p>There was that feeling, deep in his chest again. That <em>wrongness,</em> as if everything had been shifted an inch to the left without his knowing. He couldn’t associate it with Martin, of course, he had those disparaging thoughts about Martin daily. Sometimes hourly, depending on how badly Martin wanted to complicate his life for the day. But nevertheless, something was certainly out of place.</p><p> </p><p>He stared up at the walls of his office. There were no decorations; Gertrude had not been the decorating sort. Simply a clock and a framed photo of the Magnus Institute, taken sometime in the sixties. There were other photos there, too, but they were hidden almost strategically behind staggering piles of statements. Jon had once investigated them – the usual trite nonsense that decorated an office,<em> hang in there baby</em> and so forth, except he noted that whenever the poster had eyes (such as a cat dangling precariously from a tree branch), they seemed to be scratched out. Spooky, of course, but Gertrude’s behavior had been erratic towards the end of her life.</p><p> </p><p>And Jon had to begrudgingly admit that it <em>did </em>often feel like he was being watched in here. He liked that there was one less pair of eyes watching him.</p><p> </p><p>That was it! Surely that was it. He’d spent far too much time cooped up in this office, and as a result too much time spent cooped up in his own head. That was the problem with solitude; it was easy to overanalyze things when given a set amount of data. His brain, as it ever was, was simply looking for problems.</p><p> </p><p>He booted on his desktop to try and distract himself. Actual work, <em>that </em>was what needed doing, not further scratching at his brain screaming <em>wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! </em></p><p> </p><p>Because his brain was stupid. Clearly it was stupid, because otherwise he wouldn’t be struggling so much at this job, would he? He couldn’t even work without losing track of time and hyperfocusing on random stray thoughts that happened to be looming in his mind. Straightening his spine and giving a stern shake of his head, Jon pulled up the Internet browser and Googled: <em>how to read floppy discs on a newer computer. </em></p><p> </p><p>Except … no, that wasn’t what he typed, was it?</p><p> </p><p>How much attention did Jon really pay to himself during the day? Was he certain he locked the door before he left in the morning, or did he just assume he did because what kind of madman wouldn’t lock his door before he left? Did he really come to work on time, or did he just assume he did because – well, he’s <em>always </em>shown to work on time? Had he left the stove on? Had he watered his plants? Had he brought his Oyster card with him? Had he talked to anyone today (<strike>Smiling he’s smiling he’s got such a nice smile you’re going to go proper mad with only me here you know)</strike>? Had he <em>seen </em>anyone today? How much of his movements and motivations were operated simply because they were <em>de rigeur? </em>How much could change without Jon actively taking notice?</p><p> </p><p>Habit was all well and good, but only made the dissonance cut that much keener when things were <em>wrong</em>. Because in his search bar, Jon had instead typed:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Do you care about Martin Blackwood? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And it had to have been him. Because who else would it be? Any other explanation would simply be madness. The only logical explanation was that he had typed that question into the search bar, and for the life of him, he couldn’t think why.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, typed out, the question begged to be answered.</p><p> </p><p>At least that much was obvious. No, of course he didn’t care about Martin Blackwood. While that seemed harsh, Jon rationalized it more by thinking how many people he interacted with daily that he didn’t actually care about, didn’t give a whit about how their day was or their internal struggles. Did that make him a bad person?</p><p> </p><p>But surely if people deeply cared about everyone they regularly encountered, they would simply … burst?</p><p> </p><p><strike>You really are remarkable Martin how do you figure Jon your heart must be </strike> <strike>swelling</strike> <strike> up against your ribcage I think that’s a medical problem actually.</strike></p><p> </p><p>Besides, he cared about the others. If Tim or Sasha fell into a deep depression or underwent some other personal tragedy in their lives, Jon would feel an iota of concern about it. And he didn’t actively <em>advocate </em>for something awful to befall Martin, but the idea of walking in on Martin crying only filled him with a heap of exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>He would help, of course. If it happened. Only if the ‘pretend like he hadn’t seen it and run off’ strategy didn’t seem to work, but he wasn’t a monster.</p><p> </p><p>And frankly, he didn’t <em>know </em>that much about Martin. He had a degree in parapsychology that he talked about on occasion (less frequently, since Jon had given him a good dressing-down about what a waste of paper that was) and he didn’t like raw onion. He liked dogs a normal amount. Then again, Jon only worked with him – how much was he expected to know, anyway? Surely Martin had other people to care about him, too.</p><p> </p><p>An idea flashed into his head. Simply sitting down with Martin and having a drink at the pub. Sitting on vinyl barstools that squeaked uncomfortably every time they moved. Both of them a hair too tall to really sit at a bar comfortably, and thus having to hunch over like dragons protecting their gold hoard. Sipping at beer that he personally hated. Watching a sports game that was desperately more interesting than his companion. Making awkward small talk about <em>family </em>and <em>friends </em>and <em>hobbies – </em>no. He couldn’t imagine anything more abominable – he didn’t “go out” with people he actually cared for, for God’s sake, much less Martin Blackwood.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, it seemed that Martin Blackwood was on the mind. Foreboding, perhaps, when he inevitably had to sit down and drum up some plausible explanation for the location of the previous assistant notes. Jon let out an irritated sigh and reached for the mug of long-cold tea on his desk. <em>Yes, </em>perhaps he didn’t like Martin’s tendency towards making tea at the expense of work, but he wouldn’t turn his nose up at the gift.</p><p> </p><p>His hands were trembling somewhat as he emptied the cup, eyes closing. Cold tea was unpleasant, but he hoped it would nevertheless clear his head. When he swallowed the last of the liquid, Jon opened his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>There was a dead spider at the bottom, its eight tiny legs curled up close to its abdomen.</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s reaction was instinctual – and mortifying. He let out a high pitched shriek and flung the cup away. It sailed across the office, coming just short of the door and landing with an uninjured ‘<em>thump’ </em>on the carpet below. While he was grateful that there hadn’t been a crash and a shatter to add to his nerves, Jon nevertheless felt his heart race, his palms grow sweaty (<strike>I’m thirty-three I can kill a spider well first of all Jon you shouldn’t kill spiders and second of all you don’t get a prize for making yourself uncomfortable I’ll do it)</strike>. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, practically cowering by his desk, hand clutched to his chest. In the back of his mind, he could still see the illustrations, the beckoning hand of Mr. Spider, and why on Earth did past trauma have to feel so <em>irrational. </em>So cowardly. When he was a child, he had felt nearly <em>brave </em>for standing up to his fears, and now the act of feeling fear itself was <em>humiliating. </em></p><p> </p><p>Finally, as Jon stopped hearing the roaring of blood in his ears, he pulled himself together with a wince and a gulp. His underarms felt soaked; he had developed a mild stomachache. Almost meekly, he trekked to his door and picked up the fallen mug. He would have to deliver that to the kitchen, but for the time being – Jon retrieved a handful of tissues from his desk and wrapped the mug in it. Best not to risk looking down and seeing the dead spider that he’d almost <em>drank. </em></p><p> </p><p>Now, the question was, had a spider crawled in and died while it was sitting on his desk, or had Martin been careless and not examined the cup before pouring tea into it?</p><p> </p><p>One solution implied that there was a population of spiders, however small, in his office. The other solution did not, and Jon clung to it. <em>Martin, </em>yes, foolish Martin hadn’t been careful. He was never careful. Christ, what if he’d swallowed the damn thing? He didn’t think he’d ever been able to feel comfortable in his own skin ever again. And why, <em>anyway, </em>was Martin making so much tea when there was work to be done? Instead of attempting to poison his boss with spiders, surely he could actually do his <em>duties. </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon didn’t realize how shaky he was until he was sitting back at his desk again. “Shit,” Jon breathed out, voice croaking and creaking. At least nobody had witnessed <em>that embarrassment.</em> He turned to his computer and saw, with a lump in his throat, the question that he had previously typed into the searchbar.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he’d avoid the computer for now. Yes, maybe he’d instead file. So many statements needed filing, and while he usually left that to the assistants – well, he could file like the best of them. Jon cleared his throats and reached for a random stack of completed statements on his desk. They were lightly damp – when the mug had been thrown, it had flung the remnant drops of tea everywhere. At least there was no spiders. Jon checked. Twice.</p><p> </p><p>Already feeling more comfortable, Jon turned and checked the filing cabinets.</p><p> </p><p>They were old things. They’d once been an off-green sort of color; over the decades, they’d since been bleached to an unpleasant yellow. They squeaked shrilly when opened, a noise that always seemed to strike the fillings in Jon’s teeth. Jon could abide all that, because what really bothered him was the categorization system.</p><p> </p><p>Inside each of the filing cabinet drawers were manila folder dividers. In there, they divided the drawers into further subsections to make filing easier. In an ideal world, the statements would be divided by statement giver last name (but not statement ID number, for reasons Jon would never understood). For example, Jon saw the first divider claimed to contain every statement from AA-AF: the first statement in that section was from a Douglas Aaber and the last statement in that section was from a Frances Afrik. The next divider was, accordingly, AG – AN and so on and so forth.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, the filing system was far from perfect. In the first divider, Jon could not only find all statements with the last names AA-AF, but also all statements that had taken place in Africa, a statement involving an aardvark, and a recipe for affogato.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Gertrude, </em>good lord,” Jon muttered hopelessly to himself, before picking up the statements. In an efficient world, he would first organize the statements alphabetically and then work to filing them. If he took longer, though, he wouldn’t have to speak with Martin – or anyone else, for that matter. All he had to kill was an hour. And so, Jon worked, first searching for the section that would hold the last name ‘Dobelli’. And then further, and further, and further.</p><p> </p><p><em>Do you like Martin Blackwood? Do you care about Martin Blackwood? </em>What was the <em>matter </em>with him today? One would think he was growing an obsession with the man, an infatu –</p><p> </p><p>“Hang on.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s memory regarding puzzles had always been decent. He was an ace at crossword puzzles (a feat that only became more admirable as he got older, though had caused him great embarrassment as a child), could pry apart codes, could determine the trick of most riddles (<strike>hey Jon what’s this one I’ve got a mouth but I can’t spe – oh for God’s sake it’s a river Martin I need to get out of this cabin before I throttle you)</strike>. His mind was always racing for connections, however sparse, but it was only after he filed a statement for a Lola Mnelli (MN – MP) that something seemed to strike him. He filed one more, a Jack Bell, under the divider BD-BF. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at the dividers last few statements that he had filed in the open drawers.</p><p> </p><p>DO-DF</p><p>YU-YZ</p><p>LV-LY</p><p>MN-MP</p><p>BD-BF</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s mind grasped at a pattern almost instantaneously.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>DO-<strike>DF</strike></p><p>YU-<strike>YZ</strike></p><p>LV-<strike>LY</strike></p><p>MN-<strike>MP</strike></p><p>BD-<strike>BF</strike></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>DO YU LV MN BD</p><p>
  <em>Do you love Martin Blackwood? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He was losing his mind. That was it, that was the crux of it, that explained everything, he was just losing his mind, had cracked under the stress, had started to see patterns in filing cabinets. Jon felt fear twist in him then as he stumbled back from that filing cabinet, his thighs hitting his desk. He tried to breathe and only felt it bubble up from him in a gasp.</p><p> </p><p>A question jotted down begged to be answered. And Jon’s mind filled in an image, feeling quite real – arms around Martin’s middle, smiling up at him in the dopey, careless way that lovers smiled with one another. Martin was looking down at him just the same, in his faded video-game t-shirt and untied shoes. He imagined leaning up to kiss him, to feel his arms wrap around him tighter, to whisper sweet simpering words that Jon had never whispered in his life, eons and eons more genuine and heartfelt than what he’d ever whispered to anyone else in youthful ineptitude. And Martin’s smile would spread into a grin, showing his slightly crooked teeth, and Jon would feel his heart burst in sheer adoration for another human being.</p><p> </p><p>The image filled him with terror and revulsion.</p><p> </p><p>That wasn’t him. That would never <em>be </em>him, he wasn’t that sort of man, he couldn’t let himself <em>be </em>that vulnerable with another person, and that person would certainly not be Martin Blackwood in any respect. Jon was practically convinced that he would never be with another person, and that suited him just fine – because why would he force himself to be so sentimental if it was just a facade of sentimentality? He couldn’t <em>love </em>people, that act was reserved for people who weren’t half so isolated as himself.</p><p> </p><p>And the idea of loving Martin Blackwood, the man who frustrated him at every available opportunity, the man who’d just try to kill him via dead spider – <em>no. </em>No, no, no, no, <em>no. </em>It would be a curse, a punishment, to love Martin Blackwood. Some sort of grand joke by the Greek pantheon (<strike>in mythology Zeus had an eagle eat Prometheus’ liver daily you’re not allowed to tell fun facts anymore Jon)</strike>.</p><p> </p><p>He needed air. He needed air and a cigarette. With shaking hands, Jon opened up his desk drawer to retrieve his packet. In the drawer was a photo, glossy and seemingly new. Christ, he was losing it. He had to be losing it – perhaps he scribbled the note or typed the query, but Martin must’ve been the one holding the camera in this photo, as his arm was outstretched far above his head. It was hard to explain it away.</p><p> </p><p>They were both lying down in bed – it was clear from their exposed shoulders that they were both, at the least, shirtless. Jon’s arm was wrapped around Martin’s shoulder, and he was using it to pull himself up to press his lips against Martin’s temple. Jon was gazing at the camera out of the corner of his eye in a mischievous sort of way, as if he were somehow ruining the candid photo with the kiss (<strike>soft bed morning breath smile for the camera lov – oh!</strike>. A slightly blurred smile was slapped across Martin’s face, betraying his surprise and amusement. How could he orchestrate all this? What was the solution when there was no logical explanation? Or perhaps the logical explanation was that he could no longer trust his senses, could no longer trust his mind to make connections. “<em>No! </em>Of course I don’t love <em>Martin</em> Blackwood – I could <em>never </em>love Martin Blackwood! He’s an – he’s an oaf, he’s a fool, he – why do you keep hounding me?”</p><p> </p><p>But even as he said the words, that icy grip of fear still curled around his heart. The fear that his solid sense of reality, the surest certainty that the sky was blue and the grass was green, was tumbling down around him. That he would be no more aware of his surroundings than a baby was aware of their foot. That his brain would only give him false information of the world around him – information that he <em>could not sort out. </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em>No!” </em>Jon found himself hissing at the filing cabinets, reaching his hands up to press at his temples.</p><p> </p><p>Jon beheld the photo in horror. What the hell was this? What the <em>hell </em>was this? Photoshop, certainly, or – but god, <em>something? </em>Who would put this here? Why did he look like that? What were those scars on his face, his neck? Why was he in <em>bed </em>with Martin Blackwood? Why was he kissing him? Why was he acting like he <em>loved </em>him?</p><p> </p><p>Damn the cigarettes. Jon fled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: Major feelings of disassociation/unreality, bullying, major discussions of poor self-esteem</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Martin came to </span>
  <span>in the drift of conversation, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember what everyone had been talking about. It wasn’t unusual, really, sometimes he had a habit of zoning out on particularly long days. He wanted to listen to Tim and Sasha, he </span>
  <em>really </em>
  <span>did, but a lot of archival work seemed particularly </span>
  <span>d</span>
  <span>raining.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“<span>I just don’t understand why he’s got to be such an arsehole about things sometimes,” Tim was complaining. He was sitting on his desk, one leg crossed over the other, like a secretary in a faintly sexist 90s romantic comedy </span></span>
  <span>
    <span>(</span>
  </span>
  <strike>
    <span>
      <span>dim glow of a laptop screen martin this is awful </span>
    </span>
  </strike>
  <strike>
    <span>
      <span>J</span>
    </span>
  </strike>
  <strike>
    <span>
      <span>on it’s romantic shut up and eat your popcorn)</span>
    </span>
  </strike>
  <span>
    <span>. “I mean, </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>really. </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>Does he get off on it?” This was greeted by an exasperated </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>Tim! </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>From Sasha’s desk. “Does he think it makes him look better? It’s not like any of us are running off to Elias saying, oh, he’s </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>such a lovely boss</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>, he snapped at me for making a joke the other day …” </span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, he’s not got to look <em>better, </em>does he?” Sasha’s voice chimed in as Martin slowly started to fade back into the conversation. Wow, he’d <em>really </em>been on another planet that time, hadn’t he? Then again, it wasn’t too hard to catch on. “He’s already the Head Archivist. What else can he be?”</p><p> </p><p>“Head of the Institute, maybe?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, <em>maybe, </em>but he’s already Elias’ favorite, it’s not like he works for it.” In Sasha’s voice, Martin detected the faintest note of bitterness. Sasha would never take it out on Jon, of course. As far as Martin could tell, they’d been friends back in Research. Well – as far friends as Jon ever seemed able to have.</p><p> </p><p>But that really added onto his charm, didn’t it? Enigmatic, a little emotionally unavailable. Bad boy. Heart of gold. Etc. If Martin just gave him a bit of genuine affection and care, he’d soften up.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>… <span>Right? Somehow, that line of thinking seemed off somehow, today. </span></span>
  <span>
    <em>Everything </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>seemed a bit off. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>Martin pursed his lips. He couldn’t put his finger on it, it was just that getting in Jon’s good graces didn’t seem as important as it did yesterday.</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>It wasn’t like it had ever been the driving force of his life, of course. Martin hadn’t ever lost sleep at night, dreaming like a schoolboy about how to get Jon to notice him (that being said, it wasn’t like Jon </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>never </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>entered his thoughts at night, though he’d much rather die than admit it out loud to anyone). </span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>But he did have a crush. And it was … </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>nice, </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>to feel like his heart was made of butterflies and his stomach full of rose water. That much hadn’t change</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>d</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>, even if Martin seemed to be lacking the ongoing undercurrent of </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>oh god Jon hates me he hates me and he’s going to get me fired I can’t get fired what would I do what would I do </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>–</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Frankly, Martin didn’t miss it. “</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>And what’s your analysis on the situation, Martin? You’ve been quiet.”</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“That’s because Martin automatically tunes out any criticism against his future ex-husband,” Tim added with a small kick of his foot towards Martin’s desk. Martin lifted up his head to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Oh. </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>Why did he feel sad? It felt </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>sad </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>to look at Tim. He couldn’t place his finger on why, though, because it was just … Tim. Looking as he always did. Wrinkled shirt, two buttons unbuttoned, wearing smart brown sandals. Not a care in the world, looking like he wasn’t a massive </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>nerd </em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>and yet had seen every movie from the 80s on. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>And yet, here he was. Feeling like he needed to tell him something, important, finale-act number important, and Martin couldn’t think of what the hell it </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>was! </em>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>
    <em>Someone should’ve helped him Jon he was hurting and – I know Martin there was a lot we could have done. </em>
  </strike>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Martin did have a point, though. In front of the others, he acted well-blind of how Jon treated him. Because that was how it started, didn’t it? </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>Started with confiding in coworkers about a terrible boss, ended with said boss walking in on an unflattering impression. </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>No, ended with boss firing him and putting him out on the street.</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> Besides. Even if he did have his own problems with Jon, he didn’t </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>want to start slagging him off. “He’s not really all that bad. I think it’s just growing pains, honestly. Wouldn’t </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>be a little </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>ill-tempered, </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>suddenly being made king of creepy-statement-land?” </span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>T</span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>hat earned a snort from Sasha. Martin turned to look at her – and the same sensation hit him. Of </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilt, </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>of </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>anger, </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>of a profound grief. What on Earth had gotten into him? </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>They were right there, his two coworkers that he saw every day. Sure, it was a weird place to work, but they were always there.</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>I’m the goddamn archivist I should have realized who she was I know Jon and I miss her too.</strike>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Martin chalked it up to … Christ, he didn’t know, existential dread? A mid-life crisis? That was the most logical explanation. </span>
  <span>He was going to be turning thirty in a few months, after all. That was it. Martin cleared his throat. “And quit it with the future husband comments, alright? He’s going to hear you one of these days, and I don’t – I don’t even – no. He’s not my type.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, but you see, I called him your future </span>
  <em>
    <span>ex-</span>
  </em>
  <span>husband, which technically </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>- “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sasha jumped in before Tim got a </span>
  <span>chance to finish. “So you don’t like him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>There was something almost hungry in her expression. She was leaning forward on her desk, one cheek propped up by her palm. Something flashed in her eyes, but why did she care that much, unless … ?</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>god. </span>
  </em>
  <span>God, of course, he hadn’t thought of it before, but – they were both well-educated, attractive, had interests in academic things like classic literature and theater. They’d known each other longer. Of course, Martin wasn’t sure why, because Sasha </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>vehemently complained about Jon in private sometimes, but … well, what other reasonable theory was there? And Martin felt some of the wind get taken out of his sails. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <span>didn’t want to think of it as a competition, but who on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Earth </span>
  </em>
  <span>would choose him over Sasha James? He wasn’t even sure Jon was </span>
  <em>
    <span>interested </span>
  </em>
  <span>in men – </span>
  <span>and Christ, he wasn’t </span>
  <span>even </span>
  <span>exactly the star example </span>
  <span>o</span>
  <span>f mandom, was he?</span>
  <span> “I mean, I don’t really think he’s interested in dating anyway, he was telling me,” Martin found himself quipping, </span>
  <span>having absolutely nothing to back that up</span>
  <span>. Christ, </span>
  <em>
    <span>petty. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Petty, petty, petty. “But either way, no, Oxford archivists who wear tweed aren’t really my type.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whether or not Sasha approved of this answer, Martin didn’t know: because Tim was the one to stand up next, pushing himself up and over the desk to land on his feet with a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He crossed over the assistants’ office. There were four desks in the room – two on the left, two on the right. Martin had no desk buddy on his side, though he privately couldn’t imagine </span>
  <em>
    <span>four </span>
  </em>
  <span>archival assistants. It would be madness. And he liked to store his books of poetry in the empty desk sometimes; </span>
  <span>it was rather convenient.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim stopped right in front of his desk, looking down at him. Martin wondered how </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>felt about Sasha, apparently, being interested in Jon. Or – was she, still? Looking at her now, there was no sort of hunger in her face. She was looking at her computer, </span>
  <span>working as normal. Perhaps Martin had imagined it. Perhaps Martin was so concerned about someone else swooping in and taking Jon’s affections that he was starting to be theatrical about it – which was stupid to begin with, because it wasn’t like anything was every going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>happen </span>
  </em>
  <span>between Jon and him. Jon could very well get married tomorrow and Martin would have absolutely no say in the matter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>He just … liked that Jon was as alone as he was, sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>“But do you trust him?” Tim asked in his cocksure voice.</p><p> </p><p>Martin looked up at him again. There it was! A dark shadow passing over Tim’s face, as if he had caught Martin eating his lunch. He couldn’t be imagining it, could he? The way Tim’s tongue passed over his lips, desperate for Martin’s answer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A prank, maybe? Some sort of gag that they were playing on him? </span>
  <em>
    <span>It smells like updog in here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He was not going to be made fun of, not on this very weird day. “Trust him? With what, exactly? My life?” Martin asked with a scoff. “I don’t exactly work in a high-risk environment. Maybe I’ll die of blood loss from a papercut,” he added, giving a sheath of statements a shake in Tim’s direction.</p><p> </p><p>What a weird question to ask, anyway. How many times did people ask that, if you<em> trusted</em> other people? Why did he have to trust his boss? He supposed that he didn’t really need to. Content that he had regardless answered Tim’s question, Martin returned to tapping at his computer. He liked the data entry part of his job. Just type in the entry already listed on the statements. <em>That </em>was fine.</p><p> </p><p>“But if your life <em>was </em>at risk, Martin,” Sasha asked curiously. “I don’t know, say – someone was holding a gun or something at you. Would you trust Jon to save your life?”</p><p> </p><p>The idea of getting placed in that situation was so absurd. Martin had been robbed once, when he’d been younger, but even that had been done just under the threat of a knife. Not like Martin had fought back much, either, practically thrown his wallet at him. He thought of Jon – tall and gangly and who seemed to struggle to push open the heavy back door of the Archives – and couldn’t help but giggle at the idea.</p><p> </p><p>It <em>was </em>very romantic, wasn’t it? But utterly ludicrous. “I mean, no? I guess? I think – I like to think he’d try - “ But perhaps <em>that </em>wasn’t quite right, either, was it? Jon didn’t know him, not really, certainly didn’t like him. If there was a gun and a back alley involved, he was just as liable to run away. Martin wouldn’t even blame him. “But he’s sort of a scrawny thing. Not exactly the knight in shining armor type. Not that I <em>am,” </em>Martin added quickly, “But I guess, um, I guess not.”</p><p> </p><p>Sasha let out a ‘hm’ noise. “Me neither.”</p><p> </p><p>At first, Martin thought that they had both dropped the very weird line of conversation. He continued to work diligently, happily. It was always good, the days where Jon mostly kept to himself at his office. Of course, he liked talking to Jon (<strike>so you were smitten from day one then oh shut up Jon I thought you were good-looking there’s a difference) </strike> but that always ran the risk of possible lecturing.</p><p> </p><p>And Martin had always done something worth lecturing over, in Jon’s eyes. Sometimes Martin wondered if Jon sought him out to give him a good lecture.</p><p> </p><p>“But do you like him, then?” Tim, still crossing his legs over his desk. Martin let out a slight, soft exasperated huff and debated telling them to be quiet. He was trying to work. “Like, as a person?”</p><p> </p><p>“Or do you <em>love </em>him?” Sasha added, but stretched out the emphasized word. Do you <em>loooooooooove </em>him.</p><p> </p><p>“Of-course-I-don’t-love-him!” Shit, did that sound defensive? That sounded defensive. He <em>didn’t </em>love him, he didn’t, that would be mad, and why did he somehow feel a little more empty after nearly shouting that he didn’t? Why did saying that somehow make him feel more … alone?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>Warm hands warm breath warm Jon tell me you love me please it makes me feel like I’m here</strike>
</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes people woke up in weird moods, he supposed. “And I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I do, I mean – <em>platonically! Platonically – </em>I like him.” Martin shrugged his considerable shoulders and peered down at the wood patterns on the desk. He always like looking for the knots in wood. They always reminded him of little eyes looking at him – or maybe spirals? “He’s really smart, interesting to talk to. And he’s really passionate over everything. Every little thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like lecturing you?”</p><p> </p><p>Color filled Martin’s face. He suddenly felt like he was far too big to hide behind his desk, even as his shoulders slumped down to lean on it. “I mess up a lot, guys.” Christ, his voice sounded like he was about eight. Like he was whining. “I can’t blame him for correcting me.”</p><p> </p><p>“He could be nicer about it. I don’t think he’s a nice person,” Sasha continued. “I mean, right, pretend like you’re a stranger who never knew him. And you saw this guy – very important, a <em>man –</em> get needlessly promoted to the boss and immediately start acting like a gigantic arse to his assistants. Would you call him a good man?”</p><p> </p><p>“I – I mean – I –” The thing was, it was <em>hard </em>to do that. To be objective. Because for God’s sake, he <em>did </em>like him, he <em>did </em>fancy him, and it was more than rose-coloured glasses – it was like it went to his very brain. “No?” Martin squeaked out, trying to find the right answer. The answer that would make this conversation stop. “No. I guess I wouldn’t call him a good person, then.”</p><p> </p><p>That <em>was </em>the right answer. He was right. He wasn’t wrong. Yes, Tim and Sasha were both smiling at him now, as if they were all in on the secret. And <em>maybe </em>they were right to begin with. Could Martin really trust himself, anyway? He was thinking with his – well, he had a crush on him. Tim and Sasha had known him for years. And if they said Jon wasn’t a good person, then Martin was just being stupid. Just his gay-in-love brain making up traits for a guy that, really, he barely knew.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, it would probably do well if he agreed with them more in general? Tim and Sasha were intelligent and hard-working and … <em>they </em>were good people. The sort of people Martin wanted to be friends with. Martin didn’t believe that any one person was <em>better </em>than one another, but he remembered in school that most students seemed to <em>have it together </em>in ways that he didn’t. He wanted to be friends with people who <em>had it together, </em>but people who <em>had it together </em>weren’t friends with people who <em>were gigantic fucking burdens. </em></p><p> </p><p>Martin blinked at himself.</p><p> </p><p>“He can be rude sometimes,” Martin feebly tried. “Especially when he messes up just as much as anyone else here.”</p><p> </p><p>Peals of laughter from Tim and Sasha. Martin flushed again, this time from the joy of making people he admired laugh. He let out a nervous titter. “Right? Like, christ, I don’t even think he’s trained for the job. And no offense, Martin, but he’s the <em>boss!”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Think he might’ve tried kissing up to Elias for it?” Martin tried again, probing further. Okay, this was fine. Perhaps it was a little mean to Jon, but – it wasn’t like Jon would find out, and it made Tim and Sasha happy, and Jon had been mean to him. Right?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>
    <em>My favorite quality about you is your active desire to be a kind person, Martin. </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>Oh. </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>God, you think </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <strike>
    <span>
      <span>I’m </span>
    </span>
  </strike>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>a kind person? I think you need to meet more people, Jon</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>.</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
  
</p><p> </p><p>He could justify it as much as he wanted, but it still made him feel worse. Then again, loads of things made him feel worse. But at least Tim and Sasha laughed again, encouraging him on. “God, <em>probably. </em>Elias is a glutton for flattery. And have you seen how Jon acts around him? Tries to be all ‘oh, yes, we’re making admirable progress into the statementsand the digitization is going smoothly - ‘ like, fuck off, mate, you <em>know </em>Martin accidentally erased a quarter of the digital filing system yesterday.”</p><p> </p><p>It was like a giant black pit opened inside Martin’s body. <em>God, </em>how could he have forgotten that? He really was losing his mind. He remembered it now, yesterday, clear as anything – the UI for the filing system was made in the nineties, and how was he meant to know that ‘save’ and ‘copy to system’ were two different concepts entirely, and – that was <em>right, </em>he was just waiting for Jon to find out about them and fire him once and for all.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I hate my boss, </em>
  <span>Martin thought wearily, and it felt a little better to think that, now, when it came from a place of fear. </span>
  <em>I </em>
  <span>hate </span>
  <em>my boss. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Maybe if he was lucky, he could just stay in the assistants’ office all day. Jon wouldn’t even come in. He liked sitting and chatting with Tim and Sasha. Two cool, accomplished people with actual degrees and life experience. And maybe he was only here because of work circumstances, but if Martin tried hard enough, it was like he belonged with people like them.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe he could go hide in document storage. Pretend to be hard at work. Couldn’t get fired if you were hard at work, could you?</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright, Martin,” Tim drawled, pushing hims elf off the desk and going to sit at his computer. “We’ll protect you from the big scary boss man.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin wanted to protest. He didn’t need to be protected, he was nearly thirty, he … </span>
  <em>really </em>
  <span>needed this job and Tim and Sasha certainly had more sway than he did. That was fair, then. Martin dipped his head appreciatively, and suddenly, the world wanted to swallow him up a little less. “Thank you, Tim,” he whispered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Yes, of course they were right. Jon wasn’t a man to be trusted or liked. He wasn’t Martin’s friend. He didn’t like him. He was probably looking for every reason to fire him, because he hadn’t been requested in the first place. Martin would be stupid to think otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had just typed in another statement file ID when a shout rang out – clear and unmistakable and </span>
  <em>angry. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>MARTIN!” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, no. Oh, no no no. That was Jon. That was Jon, and he sounded upset. And that was probably the loudest Martin had ever heard him shout, oh </span>
  <em>no, </em>
  <span>oh no, his pulse was racing, oh </span>
  <em>no </em>
  <span>this was it, he was going to be fired, a sweat broke out under Martin’s arms and behind his neck, he </span>
  <em>couldn’t </em>
  <span>go back to job searching again, oh </span>
  <em>no, </em>
  <span>no, he had bills to pay, his mother’s care home, oh no, </span>
  <em>the </em>
  <span>world suddenly seemed colder and darker and meaner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone froze in the assistants’ office. Tim and Sasha looked towards Martin’s </span>
  <span>desk – towards Martin with shock and sympathy in their eyes. Jon had found out about Martin’s fuck up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he could claim deafness.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Martin, get out here </span><em>now!” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, hell. “Fuck,” Martin whispered under his breath. He pushed himself up from his chair (it scooted back so loudly, why the hell did Martin have to make so much noise just by existing) and he realized he had to get his breathing under control. Okay. It was going to be fine. He could just tell the truth, that he hadn’t been very well-acquainted with the system, and – everything would be fine (</span>
  <strike>
    <span>you’ve gotten loads better at confrontation is that a weird compliment to make no jon it’s actually kind of sweet I think I needed to grow a backbone).</span>
  </strike>
</p><p> </p><p>He heard Tim whistle a funeral dirge as Martin pushed out the door, leading into the Archives hallway.</p><p> </p><p>Had it always been quite so long? It seemed like it stretched for a mile in total. He turned to where he heard Jon’s voice coming from – the stairwell leading upstairs. Martin often took the back entrance, but that stairwell led to most of the other places in the Institute: the library, HR, and Elias’ office.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Martin, you are going to come with me and explain to Elias why a </span><em>large </em><span>chunk of our statements have just disappeared from our digital filing system.”</span></p><p> </p><p>Fear welled up in Martin more. Now, he had to explain his competence to both Jon – who always examined him like he was a particularly squeaky rodent – and Elias – who always smiled like he knew something Martin didn’t. Jon must’ve been waiting in the stairwell. Christ, this was serious. Not even a dressing-down in Jon’s office first.</p><p> </p><p>“Martin!”</p><p> </p><p>From the other end of the hallway. Tim’s whispered voice. Martin turned to see both Tim and Sasha waiting by … a door?</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, yes, of course, that was the door to document storage. </span>
  <em>Duh. </em>
  <span>He must really have been losing it, to forget about the door to document storage. Otherwise, that would be a door to nowhere, which wouldn’t make sense, and in Martin’s life, things made sense. Things failed because he was a failure. Et cetera et cetera. </span>
  <span>Logical. </span>
  <span>Granted, he couldn’t quite remember the door to document storage being yellow and filled with so many knots that it seemed just </span>
  <em>made </em>
  <span>of spirals, but that was Martin’s failing memory. Doors didn’t just change. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“Psst!” Sasha added with a gleam in her eye. “Come in and hide here for a bit, Martin. It’s practically soundproof. We’ll tell Jon that you were ill and decided to go home early. It’ll buy you a day or so, let Jon simmer down.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, that was an option. That was certainly an appealing option. He could just hide in document storage until Jon eventually gave up and stomped back down to his office, and then he could just leave for the day. Jon would be calmer the next day, for sure.</p><p> </p><p>And Tim and Sasha would cover for him. They were nice to him. They were his friends.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I’ve got things to </span><em>do </em><span>today, Martin!” Jon’s voice rang out from the stairwell again, and Martin winced. God, but he did sound angry. Had Martin made him a cuppa this morning? He didn’t think he had. So he was angry </span><em>and </em><span>decaffeinated. Good. The door seemed more tempting by the second.</span></p><p> </p><p>Sasha put her hand on the door, and as she drifted her fingers around it – the spirals seemed to shift, moving the way out of her hands like she was brushing through algae in a pond. Martin’s eyes must’ve been playing tricks on him. The stress, he figured. “Come on, Martin,” Sasha urged. “In you go. Do you really want to go deal with your screw-up?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was his fault, wasn’t it? It was his screw up. Martin had messed up his job, like he had messed up so many things in his life. And maybe he deserved to be shouted at by Jon and Elias – to be fired, even, because </span>
  <em>Christ, </em>
  <span>he wouldn’t like working with himself, either. He looked back towards the stairwell again. Martin could see Jon’s gangly shadow now, casting onto the floor. He was tapping his foot. He didn’t look happy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>If Jon wanted to fire him, surely he would have done so already. Because – because -</p><p> </p><p>Jon wasn’t a <em>monster. </em>He didn’t delight in Martin’s suffering. There was a good heart in him. Now, outside the assistants’ office, Martin could see it more clearly. Sure, he was a bastard, perhaps, but despite it all …</p><p> </p><p>Well. Martin still liked him. And Tim and Sasha couldn’t change his mind on that, that there was something good in him. Maybe Martin was stupid for thinking that way – he certainly was <em>something, </em>still caring for Jon as he did even when Jon was harsh to him. Maybe someday they’d get to a point where Martin could get up the nerve to politely tell Jon to <em>lay off </em>once in a while.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>Christ, Martin, all I’ve put you through – how can you possibly love me?</strike>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>Because I know you. How could I not?</strike>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” Martin mumbled his breath. The first step he took towards the stairwell was almost subconscious. He could hear Jon clearing his throat, impatient. Jon’s foot-tapping seemed to reverberate through the halls. “I’ll just tell the truth. I messed up.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Martin, </em>don’t put yourself through that. You don’t have to take the high road here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>should. </em>I don’t want to run away from things. <em>I’m tired of running away from things</em>.” His last words seemed to reverberate in him, striking things bigger than himself. Everything seemed slightly more <em>wrong, </em>then. Wrong wallpaper. Wrong floors. And he was so certain that the door to document storage wasn’t yellow. Another step forward to the stairwell.</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll <em>fire </em>you. He doesn’t care about you, you can’t trust him – you can only trust <em>us.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? Look, Elias hired me for a reason, sent me down here for a reason – I’m sure everything will be okay.” It wasn’t, not really, but Martin couldn’t bring himself to regret walking towards the stairwell. That seemed to soothe the feeling that something was very, very wrong here.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You can’t trust yourself! You’re an idiot! You know you’re an idiot!” </em></p><p> </p><p>He was an idiot, wasn’t he? He was an idiot for thinking that he could fool people. More than that, he was a <em>monster </em>on his own, trying to manipulate people into thinking that he could function at this job. All the more reason to keep walking, he supposed. Maybe it would be an act of justice if he was fired.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>GET OVER HERE, MARTIN.” </em></p><p> </p><p>That wasn’t Jon’s voice. Not Tim or Sasha’s, either. That was a woman, one whose voice he couldn’t quite put a finger on. It didn’t sound like any woman he knew, didn’t even sound like a human voice, not really – it was like the woman had two identical voiceboxes, just one slightly askew from the other, so that two identical voices were coming out at once. But wouldn’t that just make the same sound? Martin continued walking towards the stairwell.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>YOU’RE SUCH A SPOILSPORT, MARTIN.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon’s footsteps still sounded from the stairwell, but they sounded different, now. Distorted. Like someone was playing a rather scratchy tape recorder over top of them, and the <em>echo! </em>It was like he was tapping his foot in the middle of a sports stadium. Martin’s eyebrows furrowed together.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>YOU NEVER WANT TO PLAY, MARTIN.” </em></p><p> </p><p>After nearly an eternity of walking, Martin’s hand brushed against the doorframe of the stairwell. He turned his head to look towards the other end of the hallway, to see if Tim and Sasha were waiting by the door to document storage, except –</p><p> </p><p>Except that the door had moved so close to his face that his nose was brushing against the grain.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers, which had been held at his sides, were brushing against the shiny brass doorknob. </span>
  <em>Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. </em>
  <span>He looked up the stairwell up towards Elias’ office. It sounded like Jon was still tapping his foot there, so close that he ought to be there, but there was </span>
  <em>nothing. </em>
  <span>Nobody. For all Martin knew, he was well enough alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>He took the stairs two at a time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sent to the Present</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: Mild homicidal rage</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Jon hadn’t felt the absence of Knowing until it was returned to him. And return to him it did – all at once the knowledge of this new universe was returned to him. It <em>burned. </em>Jon thrust the palms of his hands into his eyes, groaning, doubling over.</p><p> </p><p>A trick.</p><p> </p><p>No. Not a trick. Anger flicked its way through Jon’s veins as he realized: not a trick, but <em>meal</em> <em>preparation. </em>Certainly, he couldn’t be put through Helen’s hallways for any appreciable amount of time, but a momentary illusion wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Especially if it put Jon in a time where things were … easier.</p><p> </p><p>Christ, had things been easier back then. Perhaps Helen had attempted to twist his mind somewhat, but there was no intent to – ah, <em>swallow. </em>Just a bit of gum-chewing, just<em> playing</em> with him. Still. That didn’t seem to soothe the guilt any. How could he ever think of Martin and not think of a man he loved? He’d been such a <em>dick </em>to him back then. It was a wonder Martin ever held any affection for him.</p><p> </p><p>And there was no guarantee Martin hadn’t been put in the same place. The difference was, however, that Martin could very well fall victim to the Spiral. To Helen. If she was able to convince Martin that his mind couldn’t be trusted, that he couldn’t believe in his own actions and thoughts … then Martin was gone. A victim of the Twisting Deceit.</p><p> </p><p>Fear struck him cold.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t even waste the time to Know. Instinct gripped him so quickly: “Martin!” Jon shouted out, removing his hands from his eyes and desperately searching the destroyed landscapes. They were in the middle of a large barren plain, not much more than yellow grass and sky. Easier to make illusions when the visual and auditory palate was clean, he supposed.</p><p> </p><p>Martin had been easily swayed, once upon a time. Jon didn’t think it was indicative of a weak moral backbone, but because Martin was guilty of a fundamental desire of all human beings – and <em>christ, </em>it was hardly a sin to want to be liked. People could change down to their very bones in an attempt to be liked.</p><p> </p><p>He only hoped that Martin had grown enough, or perhaps outwitted it enough, to remain firm.</p><p> </p><p>Jon could run all over this eternal damned plain if he wanted. Or he could be intelligent about this, even as panic welled up inside of him. Christ, if something happened to Martin, if Martin was chewed up and taken by some Entity – he was going to tear apart every last being on this new world before he got to Elias.</p><p> </p><p>He paused, took a breath, and closed his eyes. <em>Martin, Martin, Martin, Martin. </em>Always hard to find, because despite being nearly attached to his hip at all times – that damnable fog still clung to him on occasion, obscuring him. Just before he found him – that he was <em>alive –</em> he heard a shout from somewhere behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Jon!”</em></p><p> </p><p>Jon only had time to turn around before he was being hugged. And <em>Christ, </em>Martin was hugging him so tightly that he felt his spine might break. Usually, Jon wasn’t a fan of any sort of restraining hugs, but he thought that he may very well make an exception for this.</p><p> </p><p>If there were any afterimages of the Martin memory that he had been shown, it shed away entirely during the embrace. The man who had once disliked Martin – found him lazy, inept, incompetent – had died a long while ago. Unfortunately, the trade-off was that the monster he had become was much more likely to get Martin killed.</p><p> </p><p>His head had been shoved against Martin’s shoulder during the hug, and he forced himself to pull away to look at Martin’s face.</p><p> </p><p>Martin was crying. Soundlessly, of course, and his face hadn’t scrunched up yet – but tears were falling down his cheeks nonetheless, and Jon’s heart quivered in his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m – “ Jon immediately launched into it, taking a pause for a shuddering breath. Oh, <em>no. “</em>I’m so sorry, Martin, I’m sorry – “</p><p> </p><p>“They tried to get me to go through a door?” Martin explained. His voice was thick and shaky, but otherwise in good spirits. His eyes kept flitting over Jon. “And – god, Jon, it was like – like I couldn’t remember anything past my first few months at the archives? It just, it all felt <em>wrong.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t go through the door, though. You made the right decision, Martin. You trusted yourself, and - “</p><p> </p><p>“See, I don’t think I really did, though?” Martin cleared his throat, and Jon realized that his feet weren’t quite putting the pressure on the ground that they should’ve. Martin only boasted an inch on him, but good <em>lord, </em>he was squeezing him as if he were afraid Jon might disappear. “I – I mean, they were trying to convince me that I shouldn’t trust you, and … I thought I believed it at the time, but -” A beat passed. “I guess I – didn’t really? I thought that maybe, if you <em>were </em>going to do something to me, I’d – well. I’d deserve it. So I wouldn’t say I actually – you know, it exactly the most <em>healthy - </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Jon let out a small, shaky huff. “What, you’re beating yourself up about it?” He wiped away some of the travel grime from Martin’s cheeks, disbelieving.</p><p> </p><p>Although Martin didn’t respond, Jon could see the answer written on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a test of character, Martin.”</p><p> </p><p>Nothing. Martin lowered his head to rest on Jon’s shoulder. Good, he would’ve preferred to stand there a little while. “The Spiral will do all that it can to make you doubt yourself. Take you at your most mentally malleable. You’ve been through so <em>much, </em>Martin, it’s unfair for you to judge yourself from the man you were <em>years </em>ago.” Martin was soaking the crook of his neck. “Look. If it happened now, with all your memories and all your experiences - “</p><p> </p><p>“Of <em>course </em>I would’ve trusted you more, Jon. I wouldn’t have just chosen you because of some weird masochistic insecurities.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well. There you go. It’s not about strength. If it was, I imagine we would’ve met a lot more people wandering around.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin let out a strong <em>sniff! </em>which Jon took as a sign of agreement. He ran his hand up and down his back. “If it helps you at all, I would have sworn a statement that I would never, ever love you in my illusion. I was that confident in it.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you do.” Finally, Martin raised his head from Jon’s shoulder to look at him. No more tears, just a beautiful face. He softened considerably just to look at him, to count himself lucky that – whatever he was now, he had the capacity to love Martin Blackwood. “Love me, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>He leaned forward and gave Martin a sweet peck of a kiss. “Yes, I do.”</p><p> </p><p>The arms started to loosen around him, and Jon was almost sad to see them go. “In the future, Martin, let’s not measure our personal worth through people trying to kill you, shall we?” He reached for Martin’s hand. “If you need me to tell you that you’re a good person, I’ll do it anytime.”</p><p> </p><p>In return, Martin craned his head down to press a kiss against his temple. Jon wanted to hug him again – moreover, he wanted to <em>brutalize </em>Helen for even thinking that she could take Martin away from him. For all that it mattered, Martin’s presence was the only thing keeping her <em>intact. </em></p><p> </p><p>Nor did he like to think that Avatars – particularly powerful ones, anyway – could make him change so much. Even if it had been an illusion, he hadn’t been able to summon up the powerful affection that he had for Martin at all. That was dangerous, and <em>that </em>frightened him. But there was nothing to be done about it now.</p><p> </p><p>He looked up at Martin and gave him a soft smile. For the moment, they had escaped, and Martin was fine. Martin’s hand was warm in his own. Certainly, Jon couldn’t say that they were safe by any large margin, but he felt more in control – and that was about the same thing.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you alright to keep on going?”</p><p> </p><p>Martin paused, considering, before giving Jon’s hand a tight squeeze. “Lead the way.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And that's the end of my short little foray into manipulations by the Spiral. I'm a real sucker for stories where things start to get just so subtly off, to the point where you can dismiss it in your brain, until it becomes impossible to ignore. It was interesting to explore this in the frame of quasi-S1 Jon and Martin, because I think they're both particularly susceptible to manipulations by the Spiral - Jon because of his sheer skepticism, and Martin because of his lack of backbone. As they grow along the series, they begin to trust themselves a little more, which is really good to see in terms of character development.</p><p>Thanks all for reading! :-)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>